Superbia 2

by Bernard Schaffer

  What is Superbia 2?

  Superbia 2 is the direct follow up to real-life police officer Bernard Schaffer's best-selling book, right after he was stripped of his detective badge.

  Superbia 2 is the story of a seemingly safe suburban community that probably looks a lot like your own.

  Superbia 2 is the story of Frank O'Ryan's struggle to take out the trash: The drug dealing trash, the murdering family-killing trash, and the police administration trash that ruined the life of his mentor and friend, Vic Ajax.

  Superbia 2 is as stark, funny, and terrifying a portrait of police work as has ever appeared in literature.

  ***

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, methods of investigation and incidents depicted are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. No reference to any real person, living or dead, should be inferred.

  ***

  Read that part again.

  Superbia 2

  Bernard Schaffer

  Published by Apiary Society Publications

  Edited by Laurie Laliberte

  Copyright 2012 Bernard Schaffer

  Get Your Copy of this Book Digitally Signed + Personalized via Authorgraph

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  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Acknowledgements

  An Exclusive Sneak Preview of SUPERBIA 3 (COMING SPRING 2013)

  Interviews with the Author

  About the Author

  1. They fly helicopters over police funerals.

  Enormous, powerful machines from any surrounding agency fortunate enough to have one. They swoop in low above the crowd of mourners, reminding everyone of the power and force of a unified Blue. One officer falls, but the line does not falter. The line is still held.

  And what a crowd it is.

  Law Enforcement from all over show up in their Class A uniforms. High collars and spit-polished leather, looking for the attendant with the cardboard box of clean white gloves.

  New Jersey State Police always march in unison from the parking lot to the church in perfect formation. Other, smaller departments see them do it and try to copy it like children chasing after a parade float. There’s a kind of “me too” aspect to the entire proceeding. Frank felt sick.

  Danni Ajax sat in the front row of the church dressed in black gown and long, elbow-length gloves. Every bit of her, the grieving widow she became the instant they knocked on her front door to tell her Vic was dead. Vic the bastard. Vic the no-good estranged husband forking over half his salary every week, only to be screamed at that it was not enough. Every basket of fruit and bouquet of flowers and monetary donation to her children refined her appearance of grief. She’s getting good at it, Frank thought. But then, this is the big show. Pretty soon she’ll be in the full throes of hysteria.

  Beside her, the enormous figure of newly-minted Chief Claude Erinnyes. Sergeants, Lieutenants, Commissioners, Mayors, all filed toward him and said the same thing: “How you holding up, Chief? Everyone in our department is so sorry for your loss.”

  Erinnyes would nod and sigh thoughtfully and nod and sigh thoughtfully again, sucking in their good wishes and attention like an engorged tick.

  All the high-ranking officials and honored guests flanked Chief Erinnyes and Danni and Jason and beautiful little Penelope Ajax. They filled up the rows closest to the casket with their brightly polished badges and eagle emblems and gold-trimmed sleeves. They were gracious in their allowance of letting all the mourners in attendance draw strength from them, just by being in the midst of such supreme police command presence.

  The crowd parted along the right hand side of the church and Frank saw Dez Dolos leading a tall, grey-haired figure through the horde. “That’s the FBI Director,” someone whispered. “Holy shit.”

  Dez made a gracious gesture toward Chief Erinnyes, who stood up and clasped hands with the Director, both of them smiling pleasantly. The Director continued down the line, shaking hands with each person. “I’m sorry for your loss, I’m sorry for your loss, I’m sorry for your loss,” repeated to each person he passed, including Vic’s children, his wife, and then the next seven people in the pew beside them. The Director reached the end of the line and Dez quickly escorted him back through the church, taking him down the front steps and into a limousine waiting outside.

  “You absolute mother fucker.”

  Frank sat six rows back. To his right, he saw the only other person from his PD who arrived early enough to sit up front behind the roped-off RESERVED seats. Jim Iolaus was wearing his brand-new Class A uniform, bought for him by the Chief just for this occasion.

  An hour earlier, Frank watched Iolaus and Chief Erinnyes pose for pictures on the church’s front steps. Quite a momentous occasion, Frank thought. Why wouldn’t you want a framed photograph of how you looked at someone’s funeral?

  “You son of a bitch.”

  Frank ignored the words of the man sitting next to him. Ignored the smell of gunpowder. Ignored the blood smeared across the front of his shirt.

  “I’m talking to you, mother fucker. You stole my death!”

  “No I didn’t,” Frank whispered. “Go away.”

  “Yes you did! I shot myself to make a point and you stole that from me. You think I wanted all this? You think I wanted to give Fat Fuck the chance to sit there and play the benevolent leader? You betrayed me, Frank.”

  “Fuck you, Vic. Leave me alone.”

  “Real, real nice,” Vic said. “On the day of my funeral it’s, ‘Fuck you?’ In a church?”

  “You just called me an absolute mother fucker! Look, knock it off. I’m trying to pay attention, okay?

  Vic grimaced at the sight of Danni. “Look at her carrying on. What did she say when you gave her the letter?”

  Frank shifted in his seat and stared straight forward without speaking.

  Vic slammed the wooden pew in front of him with his hand, “Jesus Hirschfield Christ, Frank! What the hell were you thinking? I asked you to do one fucking thing, and you couldn’t even do that for me?” Vic spun on him, glaring into his face, showing him where the worms had eaten through his cheeks and bored holes in his eyeballs. Bugs tumbled out of his hair and fell on the floor, fell on Frank’s lap while he sat there motionless. “I’m not done with you, rookie. Not by a long shot.”

  Frank O’Ryan bolted upright in his police car, slamming his knees into the radio console.

  The early morning sun was fierce, reflecting off every car surrounding his vehicle in the bank parking lot. The lot had been empty when he pulled into it at three o’clock in the morning. Frank watched a mother holding her little girl’s hand come out of the bank and head for their car. Both of them were looking at him.

  “Mommy, was that policeman sleeping?”

  The mother instantly shushed her daughter and yanked her away. Frank put his head down and drove out of the parking lot, stomping on the gas as soon as he was on the street.

  ***

  Claude Erinnyes waddled out of his house in full uniform. Golden scrambled egg insignias decorated his hat’s brim. The gold-colored band and bright gold metal frontispiece read Chief. It sparkled in the morning sun. His white uniform shirt starched so crisply the sleeves cracked every time he bent his arms.

  Mini
ature golden eagles decorated both of his shoulders, pinned to his shirt’s epaulets. Gold buttons down the front of the shirt and on both wrist cuffs. Gold tie bar. Gold badge. A gold watch presented by the Chiefs of Police Association for his services as their Secretary last year.

  Erinnyes adjusted his gun belt as he watched the police SUV pull into his driveway.

  Officer James Iolaus put the car in park and fixed his crushed cap tight to his head. He stepped down from the vehicle and closed the door, turning slowly toward the Chief. Both of his hands were stiff at his sides as he walked forward in steady, measured paces.

  Iolaus spun to face the Chief and snapped his hand up in a sharp salute. Erinnyes thrust his chest forward and saluted him in return. Both men held the pose. “Good morning, sir,” Iolaus said.

  “Your report, Officer Iolaus?”

  “All is well in the Township, sir. Nothing of concern occurred during the overnight shift that has yet come to our attention.”

  “Very well,” Erinnyes said, and both men began lowering their arms, moving slowly, neither wanting to be the one who finished first.

  Iolaus went to the passenger side of the SUV and opened the door for Erinnyes, holding it while the Chief lumbered toward the car and hoisted himself into the vehicle. There was a stack of bundled mail sitting on the center console, and Erinnyes thumbed through it, frowning at the first envelope. “Why weren’t these delivered last night? Bill Osric needs the supervisor’s meeting minutes to prepare the newsletter.”

  “Are you really surprised? Look at who was working,” Iolaus said sadly. “I’ll make sure it gets taken care of after I drop you off.”

  Erinnyes laid the mail in his lap and said, “There’s going to be big things coming in the near future. Opportunities for advancement that one would do well to position himself properly for. If I were in your position, I’d do everything I could to make sure the supervisors knew who I was.” He tapped the envelope and said, “Particularly, Bill Osric.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “Let’s stop by his house. I’ll introduce you to him.”

  Iolaus drove to Osric’s address and Chief Erinnyes put his hat on his head and said, “Wait here.”

  For a big man, Erinnyes was light on his feet as he hurried up the stone steps leading to the house. Iolaus put on his hat and waited. A small, squirrelly-haired man in tortoise shell glasses opened the door and said, “Good morning, Chief. How are you?”

  “I’m good, Mr. Osric. My men didn’t get a chance to stop by last night, so I brought over the minutes. I know you need them.”

  “It’s really no big deal, Claude.”

  “To us, it is.”

  “Well I appreciate that. Keep up the good work.”

  Erinnyes held up his finger, “People are asking me about the Repkow property. Any insight as to how the zoning board will vote?”

  “Uh…not until they actually vote, Chief. What kind of people?”

  “Just the curious.”

  “It’s up for consideration. Just tell them that.”

  Erinnyes smiled thinly at him and said, “That sounds fine. Have a nice day, sir.”

  Osric bent down to look at Iolaus and waved his hand, “Thanks for your service. Take care.”

  Iolaus was still wearing his hat when Erinnyes returned to the car. “Let’s go,” he said. “Christ, he still smelled like last night’s booze. Useless drunk.”

  ***

  Frank pulled into the station lot and checked his eyes in the rearview mirror. They looked red. He swallowed the bitter remains of cold coffee in his cup and turned off the police radio. Chief Erinnyes stood in the parking lot, fatter than the Stay-Puft marshmallow man, fat enough to initiate a solar eclipse on the unsuspecting person he was talking to. Christ, I’m tired, Frank thought. He got out of the car and stretched, trying to undo the knots from a night spent sleeping upright wearing a bullet proof vest and gunbelt.

  Jim Iolaus smirked as Frank approached and said something under his breath that made Erinnyes smile. “Morning gentlemen,” Frank said.

  “Good morning, Frank. Night shift sicked out again tonight, so I’ll need you to cover his shift for one more night.”

  “Two night shifts in a row?” Iolaus said. “Somebody’s gonna mistake you for an actual cop if you aren’t careful.”

  Both of them smiled. Frank shrugged and said, “No problem.”

  “Also, the final interview for the two remaining applicants is today at fifteen hundred. You both are going to conduct the interview.”

  Iolaus’ smile widened. “I can’t wait, sir.”

  Frank calculated the hours until then. There weren’t many. Good thing I got some sleep last night, he thought. “Not a problem.”

  “The sooner we get the new hire situated, the sooner we can start straightening out promotions,” Erinnyes said.

  Frank saw the hungry glimmer in Iolaus’ eyes. “Okay,” Frank said. “I’ve gotta get going then if I have to be back here on time.”

  Erinnyes looked at him silently, waiting for something.

  Frank snapped his fingers, “Oh yeah.” He raised his hand to the front of his forehead in a quick salute, walking away before Erinnyes’ hand had risen past the layers of his chin. It takes talent to make a salute look like a fuck you. Call it an art form, Frank thought.

  ***

  Frank came home, undressed downstairs, and checked on his daughters. He didn’t want to wake them, so he settled on gently touching their shoulders instead of kissing their foreheads.

  Dawn was still sleeping. He locked his gun in the safe on the nightstand and set the alarm on his cellphone. He wanted to sleep all day, but there was too much to do. Pretty soon, that shed is going to start stinking and we’ll get bugs and rats and God knows what else, he thought. He gave himself three hours, set the phone down and crawled into bed next to his wife.

  The alarm went off.

  Frank sat up with a start and looked around. The space next to him was cold and empty. He picked up his phone and turned off the buzzer, squinting at the tiny red message light blinking in the corner. He pressed the voicemail button and punched in his code.

  “Frank, it’s Danni. Jason had some trouble at school yesterday and I was wondering if you could stop by to talk to him?”

  Frank saved the message and moved on to the next.

  A second woman’s voice. “Hey you. That guy came in to see me at the Stretch last night. He said he would bring me something. I’m back in tomorrow. Let me know what’s up.”

  The third message was another woman, but this one spoke in a low, nervous whisper. “It’s Aprille. I’m ready to come back. Fuck if I know what to do now, but you said to let you know.”

  Frank wiped his eyes clear and replayed the message. Finally, he saved the call and typed the name Marcus into his phone. It rang twice.

  “Sup?”

  “I’ve got two ringside seats for your favorite event.”

  “Women’s Oil Wrestling? You the man.”

  “No. Kicking the shit out of fat entitled white guys.”

  “Whiteboy Ass Kicking is my specialty, Frankie. I’m all ears.”

  After he hung up with Marcus, Frank laid in bed for a while, watching the ceiling fan rotate. Fear gripped his chest in a tight fist, making him sick over the idea of what he’d set in motion. What he’d already done, and would continue doing. Just let it alone, he thought. Forget it and move on. You’re not the only one to think about in all this.

  He tried on what it would feel like to quit like it was a hat in the store, something he picked up and wore while looking in a mirror, turning side to side. Every time he looked in that mirror, Vic’s face stared back at him.

  He rolled out of bed and threw on the oldest sweatpants and t-shirt he could find. He walked out of the back door toward the small tool shed at the rear of his property, next to the kids’ jungle gym. It was locked. He looked around to make sure none of his neighbors was outside. It smelled, even from outside th
e shed, and flies congregated near the doors in a thick swarm.

  He stood back and opened the doors, keeping his face away from the shed as he opened it, hoping that the fresh air would dissipate the contained scent of rotting food and kitty litter. He’d treated the shed’s floor and walls with Pine Sol and purple Febreze, and now it smelled like Mediterranean Lavender scented cat shit in a pine forest.

  Trash bags filled the shed up to the ceiling. The ones on the bottom were splitting open, giving birth to globs of spaghetti sauce and coffee grounds. Frank grabbed the closest bag and sliced it open with his knife, seeing nothing but paper shreddings. He threw it on the grass behind him to get it out of the way. The next bag was kitty litter, crusted tissues, and used q-tips caked with yellow slime. He held his breath and started to dig.

  2. The young man waited alone in the police lobby, palms flat against his knees, sitting up straight without ever slouching. There was a rack of pamphlets on the wall next to him, warning him about the dangers of drinking and driving and offering shelter if he was an abused woman.

  Above the rack were two framed photographs, one large and ornate, the second less so. The larger one was a professionally mounted portrait of a uniformed police officer, complete with brass plaque inscribed with the words: In Memory of Sgt. Joseph Hector, Killed in Action.

  The second photograph looked like a color photocopy from someone’s driver’s license. It was set inside a cheap looking frame, something from a Dollar Store. No plaque. The name Vic was scratched into the bottom of the frame’s wooden border.

  Reynaldo Francisco took a deep breath and held it, releasing air slowly from his diaphragm. He wiped his palms on his knees again, drying them on the fabric. He heard two people inside the station coming toward the lobby door. One of them said, “Thanks for coming. We’ll be in touch. Tell your old man I said hello, okay?”

  “Thank you again, Officer Iolaus. Any idea when will I hear from you?”

  “I’m sure the Chief will be making his final decision in the near future.”

  A uniformed police officer opened the door and Reynaldo stood up to adjust his suit coat and wait for the other candidate to leave. Reynaldo assessed him quickly. Fit, nicely dressed. Freshly cut hair, close cropped. Probably military, Reynaldo thought. Shit.